Way wive wordz provides moments of contemplation. These Warrior Shouts free the spirit from the dominance of ego consciousness. They activate intuition, breathing renewed energy into the soul force. Reactivating the soul's significance is a gateway to creativity and expansion; the eternal rhythm within everything. Introspection fulfills the soul's yearnings, connecting us to the path (or Way) of our becoming.

Monday, 1 December 2014

“If there’s a book you want to read that hasn’t been written yet then you must write it.” Toni Morrison

The Journey

The fantasy of being a 'discovered' writer by one of the mega publishing houses was long over. But it took a while to get over the seductive dream. I knew about self-publishing well over 10 years ago but thought it second rate – there was a stigma of self-published authors being considered “lepers of the literary world” as one article I read expressed. The desire to be “discovered” or “accepted” was simple – validation. To have your authorship validated by 'the professionals' meant everything. There is something cringingly narcissistic about having to shout to the world that you are “good” – that you can write. Also, the shouting suggests arrogance and discredits validation since it’s self-articulated. So I wallowed for years in the misery of failure and feeling unworthy.

Reflecting: Photo Ateinda Ausarntu (Ausarntu Dizyns)

I entered short stories and poems to competitions, submitted them to magazines, sent my first novella to publishers but there were always good reasons why they were politely turned down. Sometimes no reasons just no reply! I based my submissions on what I read in the various publications and dared imagine I was good enough. When the competition lists came out declaring the winners and their entries I told myself something unfair had taken place. My heart continued to wallow. I had the feeling that my writing didn’t 'fit' anywhere. I began to believe it was me, I wasn’t good after all.

Many of the self-published books I had previously seen looked terrible. I had a feeling mine would look the same. So I shunned the idea. Let me back up a bit. When I say “some of them looked terrible” I mean that their covers were hurriedly and poorly designed; either by the author or a 'friend.' Editing was atrocious, probably because the author did it themselves or got someone who wasn’t so committed or fully up to the task. The selected fonts sometimes seemed difficult to read – as though unnecessary flamboyance was behind the choice to use a weird looking one over a legible or traditionally used one.

How could I overcome my book falling into these traps?

Having now self-published two books, I can see how easily it is to fall comfortably into all those traps. Financial limitation is one of the reasons for this. For example, I couldn’t afford professional editors (I don’t count because it’s my work!) There are a number of editing and formatting errors in the text that despite several times editing and giving to trusted people to look at remain. I console myself by remembering that I have read several books by brilliant authors and well-known publishers with editing issues in them. We are human; the process is a human one – errors are inevitable and sometimes unavoidable. These are my first books, I will get better and I will one day have the financial means to get them properly edited and so on.

Lack of creativity and zealousness also accounts for some of the obvious self-published look. In our eagerness to see the final 'product' we can take unnecessary short cuts. When we decide on a cover image (we being the author) are we overlooking the fact that we are not the best person to make that decision – is there anyone in our sphere of influence we can call on to get honest views about the cover. The Awakening and other Poems has a flowery image – of me romantically inhaling the fragrance of pink frangipani. I decided to use this image because I liked it! It was taken on a trip to Barbados last year and I was happy that day and felt free. In my haste to get the poems published I chose this image and paid someone to design its cover. David Morrison, from Publish Nation wasn’t charging too much and would do the work quicker than friends or family I knew who were more than capable of doing same, if not better. But the waiting and expecting would drive me crazy! David came back with all the pink hazey bits which ordinarily I find ultra-cheesy. When I showed it to a few people you could see they were flinching from the luminous reflection of the image. After a while I decided I didn’t mind the design – the poems are supposed to show potential creative writing students that I have a publication to my name – therefore the aim was to fulfil a marketing gap. I needed to honestly ask myself if the cover was doing just that. I think it is but await time and analytics to tell!

That leads me to point out that a self-published author naturally finds themselves having to think like a publisher. The role of the publisher is to sell the author’s books – it’s a business, the book has to be marketable, because it’s a product that has to represent what consumers are looking for. When I spoke with the printers, they always referred to my book (Elijah, the novel) as a product. They liked the colours used for the cover and said this made for a good product. It might be difficult to think of the work in this clinical way, the arduous effort of creativity brought down to such technical terminology but there really is no choice. A book is an item produced for consumption. You read it’s back cover blurb, decide you like it, a decision based also on the appeal of the cover design, you place it into your shopping basket, virtual or real and purchase – as much as you would a good body lotion or cologne.

Trying to format the books was no joke!Creatspace will take you through this, but this joyful news came too late for our first run. But after a while I had to stop believing there was a secret conspiracy by big publishers to retain all the knowledge of this intricate procedure for themselves. I thought that publishers had all the keys to this magnificent world and somehow locked the lepers out! Truth is I really had to get a better angle on Word for Windows; get my head round Section Breaks and so on – my head is still not round these! I don’t have Mac or Adobe, which can offer some formatting and designing advantages so I made do with my blessed laptop, which has served me well. I enlisted Ateinda when I felt defeated and time was running out to help me understand what I was doing wrong. We spent ages one weekend, trying to insert/delete pages and numbers so that others would fall on the right side and therefore avoid the curse of leprosy.

Verso, Recto, ISBNS and Barcodes – getting to know what’s what.

I knew the page but had no idea it was called 'verso' and that its opposite was 'recto.' When the first proof of the poems came with the ISBN and Copyright information on the wrong side, the lesson was clear. Printers will print whatever you give them; they won’t always tell you that your formatting is busted. You have to know where things should go. If you want them to format anything, consider this is an extra service they’ll charge you for. Every step of the way Google was my virtual guide. Put your request in and amazingly, you’ll get the answer. Guidance also came in the form of some lessons on YouTube. I enhanced a particular wisdom during the process - the value of gratitude to the universe when synchronicity occurs. I thanked all those people who take time to post helpful tips for just about every conceivable problem. So the most basic user or experienced can learn something, add to their skills and begin to appreciate the worthiness of the journey.

I used to be curious about ISBNs – what secret vault were these kept in? It took ages to purchase a batch – somehow finding the £135 to do so seemed impossible. I didn’t realise that some printers will do this for you, so you don’t have to be anxious about getting your own. I didn’t want the printers to have ownership of the work by providing the ISBN. That’s the deal with some of them; it’s their way to market themselves. Since I wanted Way Wive Wordz to be the publisher of the books, I had to purchase our own set from Nielsens. And barcodes – I learnt that these too aren’t a protected prize of the big publishers/outlets. I was slowly being handed some of those keys – in truth they’d been jingling above my head all my life. I didn’t hear the gentle jingles and didn’t see the light reflecting from them because I didn’t allow my senses to be rightfully exposed. That’s the consequence of wallowing.

“Divine Order” - the right printer at the right time

Initially I wanted to publish the novel with Lulu but realised that their sizes for novels were not what I wanted. I had given the manuscript to Publish Nation to organise this, then had to pull the plug last minute and find another printer with only weeks left to the launch. After finding a printer from a quick internet search – these wonderfully friendly sounding blokes at CPI - we realised the formatting was all over the place – some are still not resolved but we decided to go for it because we’d reached that point of near break and the launch was imminent. All that pressure now seems last century but at the time I wondered if I should give back the keys. I didn’t because that would be foolishness – and because I trusted that we had found in CPI the right printers – they were just great. I began to appreciate the “back end” of the publishing process.

Top 5 motivators

1) Self-belief – pursuing creative potential

At some point in the journey I discovered Derek Murphy of Creativindie and thanked the Orisha someone like him is out there, respecting and urging creatives to be their best and earn what they deserve. I subscribed to his blog and rarely do I confess to being a 'fan' of anything or anyone but something about Derek (perhaps it’s his seeming integrity and definite generosity) spoke to me at the time I most needed it. If you go on his website, this is his tag: “lessons in publishing, art and design, selling stuff and building a prosperous creative empire.” YES! That is exactly what I needed/need. This reaching voice or mind was somehow well mapped with my ideas for Way Wive Wordz. When I received his Newsletters I thanked him for the vibrations of his words. I literally sent him reply emails! He probably believes I’m a stalker now, but I don’t mind. The discovery empowered me to more confidently own the idea I had about being a “spiritual creative” and believe much more in myself.

2) The Artist’s Way – taking some steps back to move forward

Before discovering Creativindie, about a year ago my cousin introduced me to Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. I did the remote/book course and absolutely loved it! I realised that I’d been hiding, preventing myself from going for it, because somewhere inside me lurked the gremlins of failure, fear and an art teacher’s mantra that told me when I was about 15 that I wasn’t good enough. Not only the art teacher – but the industry professionals, the competition judges, the magazine editors who didn’t select my work – they all confirmed this teacher’s judgement. The Artist’s Way helped me seek out and destroy “the enemy within” and the “crazymakers” (those people – haters of a sort – who negatively impact your life by making you jump/skip/bounce to their tunes instead of harnessing your own). The course also taught me to identify the “ally within,” to appreciate those lessons in Truth and “affirmations” my mum had long been drilling in me. I realised that two of my “allies” were English literature teachers. Mrs Lewellyn, from my High School was a Miss Marple-like robust woman who seemed to like me. Her English class was the only one I took seriously and during which I relished putting my hands up attempting to spell everything. She believed in me in a way she didn’t have to voice. And Patricia Murray, my supervisor at London Met who taught interesting modules on Caribbean literature (or other literatures in English), one on magical realism and Postcolonial studies. I respected her a lot. She encouraged and supported, her flexibility meant I could do some of the things my way. I consider her a mentor still. She believed I could write, and because I knew she was good at what she did, I trusted that and it kept me going those silent and sometimes lonely months leading up to publishing.

Phoenix High School Students and volunteers (Photo James Barnor)

Jan Parnell, Director of post at Phoenix High and Mr James Barnor

Jerome and Jamaal, JUnity

Siayome Karuma, brilliant drumming

3) Bogle L’Ouverture, legacies and reaching for the baton

The decision to self-publish came as a consequence of recognising that I really had no excuse. If Jessica and Eric Huntley, Margaret Busby, John Le Rose (and Sarah White, through New Beacon) among others could publish at a time when Africans weren’t expected to participate in this industry, what’s my excuse now? They faced extreme obstacles (not least lack of financial resources) and persevered because there was an urgency and need to produce works for Black people particularly in the UK that would strengthen their cultural identity, promote self-awareness, self-determination and express their aspirations. No one else was interested in raising the consciousness and producing culturally rich “products” for the consumption of African people in this country. I could feel myself believing I could do it. When Jessica Huntley passed away last year the compulsion grew – her spirit remained throughout the entire process; rising me from sleep early mornings encouraging me to push through, ask questions, be fearless and forward thinking. When Maya Angelou passed away earlier this year this compulsion took on fierce wings. I knew that if I didn’t take up the baton I’d have to live with that sinking feeling of having missed an opportunity to win the race. There are two poems in the Awakening, ‘Don’t tell me no goodbye’ and ‘More Markable Things’ respectively dedicated to Jessica Huntley and Maya Angelou whom I consider “spiritual anchors” of productivity and creativity now residing in the ancestral realm.

4) The Honest Guys and the Power of Meditation

It’s not easy to shut everything out and get into the 'self' that needs to be productive. I had to do something drastic – forget the ad hoc self-centering. Do it properly. I continued to engage with the ‘outside world’ as needs must – but kept it minimal. I wanted to meditate much more, and be better at it. I didn’t have funds or much time to go to the many meditation classes, yoga retreats and so on I wanted to. I came across the Honest Guys on YouTube – they have these little uplifters I became a addicted to! Each morning, and at night I played something that set me up for the day or quietened me down at night. This gave me clarity. A cluttered mind impacts the spirit and is a blight to creativity and productivity. The Honest Guys’ “morning uplift” gave me the motivation to “dream big” and believe “I mattered.” One of their meditations reacquainted me with “Shelly” the neglected child, I neglected! I revisited who she was – her sensitivities, and serious, unsmiling, face. I looked in her staring eyes and realised that they were engaging uniquely with the world. I reflected on the innocent, free spirited dreams she must have had before getting all grown – and forgetting. I began to greet her each morning.

"Shelly" and Michelle Yaa Asantewa - connecting

Photo Michael Beckford

5) Rewards reward rewards – the enterprise of positive thinking

I made effective use of the clarity I received from meditation. I made necessary decisions, began to cut back on stupidness – time wasting and wasters. I stopped taking myself for granted! I let go of everything physical and spiritual that I felt impeded me in this life and past (plural). I accepted myself – all the dimensions and aspects. I forgave myself. All the foolishness, indecisions and failures to launch. I recognised that I didn’t crave fame; but considered that fortune could have a positive impact and that it meant more than ‘physical material substance’ as was the case with King Solomon’s request for wisdom. I stopped thinking negatively and feeling limited. I developed a mantra of my own – to “dream big and ask.” I observed that if I found something and was grateful for it – and heartfully thanked the universe – there was a high chance I’d find something else to be thankful for. This attitude was expansive. It is not possible to dip into the ocean and consume all its water. In everything I began to see unlimited possibility, and know that I deserved some of the water for I was prepared to go to the depths and arise to heights. If this meant venturing in my own boat in the exciting world of self-publishing I would band my belly and boldly embrace the waves.

Taking the stage – the spirited vibes at the launch

Jan Parnell, Director of post 16 and Progression at Phoenix High School once inspired me by asking if I’d had any of my work published. About a year later that’s exactly what I was doing for myself and feeling proud to do so. It’s the right time because the self-publishing taint has pretty much gone. Self-published authors are not “lepers “and have never been. There are services and programmes readily available to help us become better at the task of creating marketable 'products' and own our creativity. However, we have to accept that the quality of writing still has to “measure up” so we have to set our own high standards, generate excellent content. Some of us will hit the right buttons and make millions from this growth industry. Many of us will at least be grateful that we tried. Still some will eventually master the craft of marketing and distribution that will really be the test of our successes or failures.

A 6th form centre was exactly the place to hold the launch. Some wonderful students at the aptly named “Phoenix” School volunteered to help on the night. Hosted by Rahima Begum, the Executive Head Teacher Ambassador and member of the Youth Parliament, the event was predominantly led by young people. We had a stunning line up of performers. The occasion was opened with drumming by Siayome Karuma accompanied by flautist Keith Waite and pouring of libation by Priestess Osunyemi. The libation honoured ancestors as well as those young people who’d lost their lives through violence. We dedicated the event to James Andrew Godfrey Smartt (Jags) who was killed in Streatham Ice-rink by another youth in 2007. The day of the launch, 20th November, he would have been celebrating his 24th birthday.

There was an impressive turn out despite the tart weather and behind-gods back location of the school. Among the mix of adults and youth, were three special octagenarians – Lucille Davis, my mum, Eric Huntley and James Barnor. Natalie David’s soothing rendition of “At last” warmed us up and marked the flavour of achievements. Danny Thompson raised the tempo still with his powerful piece – ‘Understand Young Man’ urging African youths to ‘recognise’ the folly of postcode wars and the way the ‘system’ benefitted from their lack of self-awareness. The crowd swayed and were clearly charmed by the wonderfully talented J-Unity, a “young unique duo” who appeared last year on Britain’s got talent. They sang two tracks from their forthcoming EP – both big tunes to watch out for when it lands.

I was impressed by the two young ladies, Leonna Grant and Amira Ibrahim who read poems from the collection. As for the three young men, Guled Mohamed, Mohyahdin Shiddo and Ahaziah Jackson-Denis who volunteered to read/act out the dialogue from a scene in Elijah, they were brilliant. I dreamt of this and simply asked the question, the reality measured up beautifully.

As I read a last selected passage from Elijah I held back tears because I felt sad about what was happening to him in that ‘scene.’ He had been arrested and was being mechanically turned over by a system and society that had no regard for the circumstances of his life, let alone his rehabilitation. On reflection the sadness also has something to do with me having to let him and it (the novel) go. It’s exposure. This reminds me of a time I heard Toni Morrison reading. A friend asked if we could take a picture of her – “as long as it doesn’t flash” she said. “It won’t” my friend lied. The camera flashed, Toni frowned. It’s not always possible to get a good picture without using the flash. If one wants to take the stage they must be prepared for the exposure and all the discomfort this comes with.

I want to keep hold of my balance, continue developing the craft of writing, getting better at it. And now with the publishing angle, doing this to a level I can be proud of. For now I must accept all the congratulations because with the excellent support of guides in both physical and spiritual realms I achieved a triple launch. I developed the Way Wive Wordz website - do take a browse - (all self-published authors are encouraged to have an “author website” and there are no shortages of people who will develop these for you, if you have the funds to pay them; pay them you must because they will deserve every penny if they do it to your satisfaction; and of course the two publications which are first of many, if the Orisha and ancestors continue to bless me. The prettiest pink flowers gifted to me, the sumptuous refreshments collectively provided, the energy of the guests, the warmth of the Phoenix flame, the queues to purchase the books, the quill pen I used to sign them all made me happy to take the stage and be glad to do it my way and finally sigh!

Tuesday, 11 November 2014

Enoch Powell had (before I was born) consigned me to a destiny of creating terror and violence; prophesising my vile, bloody impact on the imperceptible tranquillity that was English society. But I didn’t know that I was this vile, this evil creature he had thrust into the minds (imagination doesn’t work!) of his followers (the bold ones and the others). I was too busy dealing with the emotional trauma of being in and adjusting to this new hostile environment, one that questioned the very point of my existence. I was unaware that I was considered the cause of its hostility towards me. A bizarre notion – that I should be the instigator of my own oppression. Those born into this hostility might have a different sensibility about belonging, feeling part of England. I know only that I had no perception of racism until I came here. I learnt how to read its signs. And they were everywhere. I learnt that I was a ‘problem.’ I suspected myself – that my attitude needed checking – all the time – it was me, always me who was the problem. What else could I do but try to prove how much of a problem I was. Someone decided that’s what I was and will always be. And I wanted evidence.

Now, our mothers and fathers were used to repair post war Britain; they stooped to do the menial jobs the poorest English person refused to do. By the time I arrived here those poor English people had cottoned on; they checked their exercise of pride; decided to muck in; after all those Caribbeans were buying houses, travelling back home– how? The exercise of pride switched; we – the now over 30s and 40s were not prepared to stoop anymore. Why should we? We wanted in – wanted a bigger piece of the English pie (we knew there was no gold). Some compromises had to be made to sample it – compromises some of our brothers were not prepared to make; some of them loafed their way to jail, others played the entrepreneur, the loot of which is yet elusive, the big boys always seem to have the trumps. Compromising meant that you just couldn’t quite be – couldn’t fully express yourself without seeming like ‘the problem’. It was hard to get over your vexation (that insidious knowing that you weren’t wanted, that you would never belong whether you were born here or not); so you carried the thing with you like a genie that every so often popped the hell out. You knew you weren’t going to be promoted, no matter how hard you worked – and you – some of you – worked hard, so you never went for the promotion; a hapless white colleague went for it instead. What was the point? You were trying to control the ‘genie’ – the ‘attitude’ – if only to keep your job. So you bore a smile; played the (‘I’m not black really or not really black’) game.

The 1980s was the era of the ‘buppy’ – those black people who managed to get a foot in what Thatcher wanted us all to have, upward mobility; a juicy, if tenuous stake in capitalism. Some of us stuck with the dole, though, because it was easier than having to play that other game – the pie could only be shared to so many before it ran out. Bags of weed were purchased with the dole – it just wasn’t enough to do anything else with; to put down for a deposit on a house say! Besides, some of us thought it was money owed to us; some sorry compensation that we deserved for being treated as if we were the scourge of humanity. Others studied everything we could, receiving certificate after certificate, diplomas for this and that and still no advancement in our jobs – we still didn’t have the guts to go for that promotion when it came. And while we were busy studying our white peers worked (you know - those you went to school with that weren’t as bright as you or perhaps just a little brighter); they got that job you went for with your ill-fitting face and attitude, knowing you were a ‘problem.’ That’s the ‘good old days’. What has any of this got to do with our children? Our ‘good old days’ have left some scars. The reality is that we were experiencing our own disillusionment in our ‘good old days’.

Powell spawned the gargoyle Griffin who perpetuates the puke that I and my children are an ‘alien threat’. The indoctrinating language of terrorism is used with subtle variations to define us and our children. So now that the goldless streets are repaired; the menial jobs taken care of, not only by the poor English who are now willing to muck in but also by their hard working European brothers and sisters - what need has this society for us and our children? The sense of feeling, of knowing that you are surplus, (a category you share with white working class children whose parents didn’t indulge the pride check), that before you were born it was prophesised that you were going to be ‘a problem’ can compel you to presenting the evidence.

My mum tells me she loves often now. If I’m honest I think I needed to hear it more when I was in my moment of experiencing – when I was being told at every turn that I was a problem. But I understand that she too was in her moment of experiencing and struggling to find her footing; you just had to assume the love was there. When you suspect yourself of being a problem, you turn in – too young to do the introspection – but you implode. You agree that the enemy is you. Everyone says so. And you want them to know how right they are; it’s true. You do what you can to present them with the evidence. You become bigger and badder than the prophecy.

We want our children to live, to survive their moment of experiencing despite its bleakness. So we might ask ourselves some hard questions. Have we transferred our own disillusionment and sense of being, feeling unwanted to our children? That feeling can make us aggressive, unloving and frightened – a terrifying emotional cocktail that we might not even be aware of exhibiting. Questions abound. Do we listen to our children? Do we know how to respect them? Do know that should respect them – that their respect of us might have to be earned? Or are we as ‘old school as our parents’ - exercising the harshest disciplines that’s insidiously remnant of the slave whip? Do we always think we’re right, our children wrong? Have we forgotten the negotiations we had to make in our time to survive the hostilities we faced? Are we honest and open with our children (you will know the boundaries)? Do we tell them how brilliant they are? How much we love them? That love thing cannot be overstated. The fullest expression of it to our children can only manifest if we fully express it to ourselves – when we have properly accepted who we are – a place we reach through introspection. Fact is we might know more about how not to express love than anything else. We might know the hardcore version – sisters might express the supermatriachal one; brothers might still be wondering what the hell it means to express love (who showed/taught you how to do this?).

Do we take our children out (when was the last time, to see a movie – the pirate DVD’s not the same thing - to the park, to a shopping centre, to other family members – to the library)? Are we interested in them and their interests? Do we know who their friends are? Have we invited those friends round (or is your house out of bounds to your child’s friends)? Do we know where they are (they might pretend they’re some place their not, but do you know where that place is – at least)? If they find themselves incarcerated, do we throw hands up and leave them there? If we can see, somehow intuit something’s wrong – do we let it go because we’re too wrapped up with our own issues to bother? A wicked question I feel pressed to ask – of mothers, do you put your child first – always – before the new man (or any, even their father)? Of fathers – have you properly considered the enormity of your responsibility as a father – and if so, can you handle it – this goes for the biological father and the stepfather? Or are you, mothers, fathers living still in the clasp of your own disillusionment; failing to do the thorough introspection would assist your own movement from cygnet to swan? How prepared are we to go all the way with our children, to be there for them and bring them back when they’ve stepped off? And endlessly the list of abounding questions goes on.

Society has accountability for the disillusionment our children are experiencing, of that there’s no doubt. Society will spit them out; make them feel unwanted and valueless. But we have to take up arms against a society that tells them this. We have to recreate their worlds, give them fresh, new sensibilities. They have been saddled with the burden of being a surplus problem. So we have to adopt a warrior stance to help them survive; to be on their side and defend them. We strike back with love every time they flare up. We let them cry. We show them we can cry with them. We tell them we will try to understand. And we must mean it. We do some introspecting because they need us now – they need us to be their friend because they identify themselves as the enemy. And I don’t mean the kind of ‘friend’ they ‘roll with.’ This friend is shelter, comfort, support, love, understanding, trust and consistency. If you assign the label ‘generation of vipers’ to young people, they will strike because that’s what vipers do. It’s impossible to love a viper. How can a viper love itself when it knows it’s a viper? Our challenge (that’s what warriors face) is to direct them towards mastering their swan wings. This is possible only if we haven’t subscribed to society’s labelling them as ‘a problem’ long before they were conceived. One of the most beautiful things the heart can behold is a loving pair of swans gracefully gliding alongside or behind or in front of their playful cygnets.

Tuesday, 21 October 2014

...Questions abound. And introspection, if pursued might provide answers about how and why ‘he turned out like that?’ And more importantly did he do it all by himself?

Clearly these questions should be posed to the society in which our children are born. But this does not change the fact that they are our children; the over 30s and 40s among us – these children in the moment of experiencing are our children. So have we looked, retrospectively, at our time and sought answers there? Have we looked deeply, honestly within ourselves and acknowledged, however difficult, whether we might have played any part in the disillusionment our children are experiencing within their moment? If we haven’t, we are not as willing to hear our children are crying, perhaps we’re not ready to understand why.

This is not to say that the society should be let off without a probe. If we’re talking about the 1970s, 1980s what was happening in those ‘good old days’ of ours? I was not born here, I arrived in 1980. Enoch Powell had (before I was born) consigned me to a destiny of creating terror and violence; prophesising my vile, bloody impact on the imperceptible tranquillity that was English society. But I didn’t know that I was this vile, this evil creature he had thrust into the minds (imagination doesn’t work!) of his followers (the bold ones and the others). I was too busy dealing with the emotional trauma of being in and adjusting to this new hostile environment, one that questioned the very point of my existence. I was unaware that I was considered the cause of its hostility towards me. A bizarre notion – that I should be the instigator of my own oppression. Those born into this hostility might have a different sensibility about belonging, feeling part of England. I know only that I had no perception of racism until I came here. I learnt how to read its signs. And they were everywhere. I learnt that I was a ‘problem.’ I suspected myself – that my attitude needed checking – all the time – it was me, always me who was the problem. What else could I do but try to prove how much of a problem I was. Someone decided that’s what I was and will always be. And I wanted evidence.

Now, our mothers and fathers were used to repair post war Britain; they stooped to do the menial jobs the poorest English person refused to do. By the time I arrived here those poor English people had cottoned on; they checked their exercise of pride; decided to muck in; after all those Caribbeans were buying houses, travelling back home– how? The exercise of pride switched; we – the now over 30s and 40s were not prepared to stoop anymore. Why should we? We wanted in – wanted a bigger piece of the English pie (we knew there was no gold). Some compromises had to be made to sample it – compromises some of our brothers were not prepared to make; some of them loafed their way to jail, others played the entrepreneur, the loot of which is yet elusive, the big boys always seem to have the trumps. Compromising meant that you just couldn’t quite be – couldn’t fully express yourself without seeming like ‘the problem’. It was hard to get over your vexation (that insidious knowing that you weren’t wanted, that you would never belong whether you were born here or not); so you carried the thing with you like a genie that every so often popped the hell out. You knew you weren’t going to be promoted, no matter how hard you worked – and you – some of you – worked hard, so you never went for the promotion; a hapless white colleague went for it instead. What was the point? You were trying to control the ‘genie’ – the ‘attitude’ – if only to keep your job. So you bore a smile; played the (‘I’m not black really or not really black’) game.

The 1980s was the era of the ‘buppy’ – those black people who managed to get a foot in what Thatcher wanted us all to have, upward mobility; a juicy, if tenuous stake in capitalism. Some of us stuck with the dole, though, because it was easier than having to play that other game – the pie could only be shared to so many before it ran out. Bags of weed were purchased with the dole – it just wasn’t enough to do anything else with; to put down for a deposit on a house say! Besides, some of us thought it was money owed to us; some sorry compensation that we deserved for being treated as if we were the scourge of humanity. Others studied everything we could, receiving certificate after certificate, diplomas for this and that and still no advancement in our jobs – we still didn’t have the guts to go for that promotion when it came. And while we were busy studying our white peers worked (you know - those you went to school with that weren’t as bright as you or perhaps just a little brighter); they got that job you went for with your ill-fitting face and attitude, knowing you were a ‘problem.’ That’s the ‘good old days’. What has any of this got to do with our children? Our ‘good old days’ have left some scars. The reality is that we were experiencing our own disillusionment in our ‘good old days’.

Powell spawned the gargoyle Griffin who perpetuates the puke that I and my children are an ‘alien threat’. The indoctrinating language of terrorism is used with subtle variations to define us and our children. So now that the goldless streets are repaired; the menial jobs taken care of, not only by the poor English who are now willing to muck in but also by their hard working European brothers and sisters - what need has this society for us and our children? The sense of feeling, of knowing that you are surplus, (a category you share with white working class children whose parents didn’t indulge the pride check), that before you were born it was prophesised that you were going to be ‘a problem’ can compel you to presenting the evidence.

My mum tells me she loves often now. If I’m honest I think I needed to hear it more when I was in my moment of experiencing – when I was being told at every turn that I was a problem. But I understand that she too was in her moment of experiencing and struggling to find her footing; you just had to assume the love was there. When you suspect yourself of being a problem, you turn in – too young to do the introspection – but you implode. You agree that the enemy is you. Everyone says so. And you want them to know how right they are; it’s true. You do what you can to present them with the evidence. You become bigger and badder than the prophecy.

Wednesday, 8 October 2014

This is a repost - slightly edited. I wrote it whilst I was working on my novel Elijah, which I’m launching in November this year. The circumstances haven’t changed too much, in the sense that there still is a sense of despair for young people. A couple of them have moved on, are working, have struggled through their degrees and now have expectations about their futures. Still more are waiting in the shadows, afraid, needing guidance.

As I write, Tracey Ford, whom I dedicated the original Shout to, and the only reader who forwarded a comment, is a finalist for the “Inspiration Woman of the Year Award” - winner to be announced on Thursday 9th October. Tracey, of JAGS Foundation, a charity named after her son who was murdered by another Youth, has transformed the lives of young people through her commitment to raising awareness about the devastation caused by youth on youth crime.

The post was long, so I’ll serialise it – and circulate in 3 parts.

Cover image of Elijah, by Scott Jason Smith

For all those cygnets struggling to become swans
and Tracey Ford, rather than a cygnet’s or swan’s,
your son will ever have angel wings

At what age can we speak realistically or even euphemistically about the ‘good old days’? We over 30s and 40s have decades behind us that make retrospection possible. But what about a 20, 17 or 10 year-old – are such portals available to them? I don’t think so; though arguably the 20 year-old is advancing thus. They are within their moment of experiencing what should become their ‘good old days’. But so are we. We are also within their moment of experiencing. The decades behind us do not only offer retrospection but also the maturity that enables introspection.

Introspection is an honest, deep ‘examination of our thoughts and feelings’ – a serious (hence ‘examination’) looking within; and not only of our ‘thoughts and feelings’ but also our actions. This looking in for most of us is the most painful and ugly thing we can do, for which reason it’s often avoided.

In this Shout I want to consider the cries of disillusionment from our children– or our cygnets, as I like to call them, struggling to earn their swan wings. Why do they cry? Why do they feel, as my 20 year old niece recently told me, that ‘there’s no point’ to their life when this is their moment of experiencing their good old days? Are we hearing them? Are we even listening? Or are we, as my 17 year-old nephew told me, from a generation that can’t understand them? I’m hoping that by giving some thought to the kinds of struggles our children are facing we might realise that despite their feelings of disillusionment this can be their good old days if we’re willing to extend our ears, hearts and hands to help them master their swan wings. This is why that honest examination of our own thoughts is crucial. Avoiding introspection can leave unattended those issues that hinder spiritual maturity. And how can we help our children master their swan wings when we have not found ways to perfect our graceful gliding against the torrents of our own lives.

It may not only be a ‘black problem’ but it sometimes feels like it is. Every knife or gun killing is despicable. I am certain most African people have some direct or indirect association with a child who has been the victim of a “knife crime.” “Knife crime” – a term spouted in the news so often, like that other “terrorism” (and the ‘war on it’ – in Afghanistan, in Iraq where lives are being senselessly destroyed every day) that we’ve become desensitised to the absolute and particular trauma each one holds for the families involved. When we see in real time or in a movie someone being shot or otherwise killed, this comes to us as entertainment. Deaths caused by disasters like Haiti are compellingly tragic; we’re truly moved; no longer desensitised – at least momentarily. After the opening disaster scene of Haiti – we return to our numbness, watching the news, hearing that another child has been killed, we ‘tut’ and that’s mostly all we seem able to do. But what if that child is yours or someone you know? What if the child who killed the child is yours or someone you know? Questions abound. Anger and frustration too; a part of you dies. You know that you did the best by and for your child – whether victim or perpetrator; you’ve supported them and loved them. You know too that your child was good, so why?

No matter how many ways you ask yourself the questions there will never be an answer that explains to you why your child died before you. Whether you support your child, are the best parent/s you can be to them; whether they are good or not, they are living within their moment. And their moment, however much or little it’s spread in the news is one where a life seems valueless; taking it easy. My 17 year old nephew – brilliant, loving, positive (one of those dream children) has repeatedly neared death (and only until writing it, have I admitted that it’s this rather than the ‘bullying’ it might otherwise appear to be) from boys and boy gangs who see him as some kind of easy target. A target of what? Of bottling, knifing, exercise of power and, disgustingly the Ninetendo game style ease of taking another’s life. The martial arts lessons have not prevented the attacks. Although he’s more confident, his smiles mask the very thing he tells me I cannot understand –‘it’s not like your time, aunty.’ I try to reason with him, that I do understand; that in my time we had fights but...” As long as I have to add the ‘but’ his point is better made.

What makes him this target? Nothing perhaps; or something – maybe it’s his aura or his positivity? Maybe it’s the way he will say, when you least expect it, ‘love you aunty?’ I can’t say for sure. I feel, however, that enmeshed in his moment of experiencing is the persistent edge of a knife against which he lives. His parents – the most supportive I’ve known – recently bought a knife vest for him because he insists that he must be free to travel wherever he wants without them driving him to and fro. It was a compromise – he didn’t want either – because his parents are also living his experience. His mother prayed, when he was born with a heart defect that threatened his life that he should live; bargained that she would be good if God kept him alive. She continues praying, because he yet does not have his swan wings. And until these extremely dire years of his experiencing are spent, when he has retrospective distance she will be solidly supportive, just there to return back the words of love he needs to hear to know that his world is not as bleak as it seems.

Another nephew, a good boy too - he was one of those round babies born with a big, cheery smile and evident love for life; a young Christian, who loved to write and draw. In his moment of experiencing those traits seemed impossible to sustain. Other things were demanded of him. He stopped the smiles. Not immediately, not obviously, he also wore a mask. But if you were reading him with your heart; if your ears were really opened to what he was saying or not saying you could perhaps intuit his good old days turning into a dodge and haggling for his life. Young Offender’s Prison only confirmed that he was part of his moment, properly living within it. After that ghastly term, the knife that missed his kidneys sharpened his credibility within his gang. They had become his new family, providing him with something we didn’t seem to know how desperately he needed. No amount of imploring could force his introspection (‘why are you doing this to yourself?’) because the retrospective portal is not yet available to him; he’s still within his moment. There is an enemy within his time but he doesn’t know who or what it is. Therefore it – the enemy - might as well be his life; the enemy might as well be himself. ‘This is how it is now, aunty...it’s nothing,’ he told me when I cried, ‘but you nearly lost your life.’ ‘It’s nothing,’ he said without an ounce of emotion. What bitter pill? I had watched his mother in agony- those 18 years ago – bringing him into the world. Her agony soon turned to elation when he made it; we were so happy that this blessed boy was my mother’s first grandson. Questions abound. And introspection, if pursued might lend answers about how and why ‘he turned out like that?’ And more importantly did he do it all by himself?

Saturday, 2 August 2014

She was struggling with a shopping trolley just near Brixton Station. An elder woman, on her own, doing her shopping. She looked weary but determined. I was handing out flyers. She reached for one and I became curious that she was on her own. Where are your people, I asked her. She said her son lived in Kent, I can’t recall what else she said. We got chatting, I picked up her Guyanese accent. She sounded a bit like my mum and my mum’s friend Ms Monica – an old time Guyanese - a kind of sing-songy poshness and vibrancy.

She stood with me for a while - said she would like a massage one day. Sure I said, thinking it won’t ever happen. She began telling me a little of her life - particularly her trials with men - distrusting all of them – and firing "effings" here and there - as she told her stories. I tried hiding my shock! She seemed to be enjoying herself knowing she was surprising me, commanding my deepest interest.

Nearly a year later, I received a call from her. Mrs Washington - Ivy, she said. I had the feeling I was expected to know who she was – as if she was a “some body” – the “Mrs” title was never removed though I realised later she had been divorced for several years. She wanted that massage after all! Wow – was my thought because she was pretty robust, high large buttocks like that maid in the Tom and Jerry cartoons - her legs where she wanted the massage were thick.

The massage didn't happen. A surge of relief! But we became "friends." I learnt that she lived alone. The massage might have been a rouse to get me there - she really needed company - because those unbelievable numbers of fridge magnets, ornaments and every kind of random collectibles –those old time plastic tropical fruits, she blended with real ones and tricked you by asking if you wanted one - could only satisfy her loneliness so much. Oh she had dancing animals, singing teddies, illuminating angels, images of white Jesuses, but a black one somewhere too - pictures of her myriad trips abroad, and nuff postcards to complement. Her home needed to be on one of those decluttering programmes. It spun my head! But how she loved these possessions that some of us encouraged her to part with if only to give herself space to breathe.

Perhaps it was in a bid to see her in a clear, more tranquil space that over year ago, some months before the fall I dreamt the house was completely decluttered – you could see the floors, no carpet just plain wooden floors, blank walls upstairs and down. Mrs Washington, I said in the dream – you’ve cleaned out the place, it looks lovely. There was light coming through the windows – the house looked calm, she looked at peace. I told her the dream and she said it was good.

The dream must have been a sign of her demise, her spirit preparing the way for a final journey. Her survival from the fall – having been found four days later by neighbours - reaffirmed the powerful, strong, woman she was. That she should face that kind of trauma and pull through, come back with the fighting triumphant spirit we adored her for was phenomenal. So amazing it fooled us into believing she was invincible.

She was always so lively, though crying out for the pains - yet acknowledging her mouth to be still strong. She pulled you into her laughter – sometimes with her own jokes other times by showing you one of her performing animals that delighted her so much. I became drawn into her world, loving her as though I’d known her all my life. It turned out that she knew my mother, Lucille, they shared a best friend in Mrs Monica Wisdom – sisters of Unity a self-empowering brand of Christianity.

Mrs Washington was truly fascinating. She was so proud – had a magnetic personality. Her brand of life affirming expressions I’m not sure we can truly appreciate. She was sometimes very suspicious of people; was intensely protective of those possessions, perhaps precious only to her – none of which she could ever take with her to her final resting place.

The last year had robbed her of life, that vitality she used to give political commentary – she often filled in the gaps in my awareness of current affairs. The stroke shocked us and eventually left her in a deathlike state looking with sad lonely eyes through the window - no longer communicating as she had been (then there was minor recognition and sometimes even speaking). Last time I saw her was a few months ago on her birthday in April. She looked so cute - but there was a sign of finality - the demise clearly imminent. I needed to know precisely how old she was – and attempted to write down a figure and see if she would confirm or deny it to be her right age. She just looked at the paper (somewhere in there I thought she was thinking – “wha’ really wrang wid dis geurl.”

Her only child, Desmond later told me she was born in 1929, making her 85. Like many of her generation who came from the West Indies and Guyana, Mrs Washington arrived in the UK full of expectations of a better life. I once asked if she’d ever returned to Guyana – “when yoh come out da gutter wha’ sense it mek going back,”she said seriously. I tried not to feel offended. She was a grafter, was always blessed to find work. I don’t think this was down to her skills alone – I imagine it was also because she was a stunning film star beauty who simply charmed anyone who met her. I loved those beautiful black and white photos she had of herself in the house – particularly the one in her wedding dress – her husband nowhere in sight – just a gorgeous young woman poised to take on a new life.

But it was the hard work and sense of enterprise, the spirit of the time she came here that made it possible to buy her home in Brixton. Oh this was her ultimate achievement – her life and soul went into that home. It was an absolute pride, a joy to know that after great struggle she could declare that it was bought by the sheer hard work and determination – along with remarkable thriftiness. I listened to the story over and over. One had to. And respect the achievement. Her next achievement for which she was proud was sending for her son to join her in England. But she was the kind of woman you couldn’t help adopting as your mother. She embraced people. She was an icon on Medwin Street, having lived there for decades and well known to everyone who might hear her mouth before they saw her slow strutting with her trolley.

She had an independent spirit. We can all attest to her stubbornness. And her strength she owed to her God, whose name she never stopped calling. A lot of prayers went with those colourful curses with which she introduced herself to me. Everyone knows of her generosity, the charitable attitude she had of always giving. There wasn’t a day I visited I left empty handed – no amount of courteous refusal was acceptable. She always tried to get me to take these incontinent pads – she had a stash of them – for my mum – or just to send back home! It’s ok, I’d say. But the offer was always there. And she got extra medical supplies (random tablets) she thought they could use back home in Guyana. Her crazy extended to odd things she bought from the £1 shop, often insisting I take them; would look almost insulted when I refused. So I'll keep the three kitsch cups because they'll remind me how happy she looked when I accepted these strange but generous "gifts."

I loved her craziness - marvelling at her all the time. For different reasons - like why she held on so tightly to things – physically and mentally. Wondered when she would ever let them go – be resigned to quietude that comes with releasing. Or the way she had reached that elder's state of repeating stories as though telling you for the first, maybe second time. Or the fact that she had overcome burdens that would defeat many others, bring them down. But her laughter was always so vibrant – attesting to her spirited embrace of all the changing scenes of life.

She didn’t take her health issues as seriously as she should have. I felt gutted each time I went into KFC or Speedy Noodle on her request which I always felt obliged to fulfil. She hid the severity of her health problems – major ones like diabetes. The oily food, sweets, biscuits, crisps - especially quavers, she craved gave her childlike pleasure but was so contrary to her good health. That last time I saw her I had a sense would be the last. Prior to this my goodbyes were met with a familiar “okeydoke.” I had whispered to her that she had had a great life - there's nothing really needed here for her to keep onto. I told her I loved her. Told her that she had travelled to more places than I could ever dream of seeing. But she would encourage me to dream big, aim high, and tell me well done when I mentioned an achievement. I told her she had worked hard, despite serious obstacles, persevered to own her own house. I asked her to look at the camera, and smile because it was her birthday. The eyes looked up, the old time beauty yet proud to face the camera, but she looked so sad signalling the bittersweet sorrow we would all share at her passing on Saturday 19th July.

Mrs Washington often spoke fondly of her grandchildren, I recall Jason particularly, whom she said would always bring something for her. She leaves behind her sister Waveney, brother Dennis, Desmond her son, other grandchildren, Paris, Craig, Samar, Jonathon, a niece, Joan, nephew John; many friends, she always said Sister Monica was her best friend, neighbours, church family and people in the Brixton community who knew her. You will be missed by us all, Mrs Washington - witnesses to your enchanting, exuberant life. Our thanks to the nursing home in Kent where she passed away – when I visited she looked well cleaned and cared for by the staff there.

She went splendidly with the thunder and rain - her spirit beginning to travel in the resounding claps a few nights earlier. With the daytime blazes of the hottest days and nighttime pounding of the rain gods, she made a striking entrance through the eternal gates; casting off stick and ailments to sit at the Master’s feet and rest. With delight she lifts up her heart, finally free, finally ready to let go and make the journey home to abide with her ancestors. We salute you Mrs Washington - thank you for claiming us as family, and me as one of your daughters. I looked for and saw your vital force in the rainbow on your nine night - signalling your majestic transition, that you too could manifest in the elements if there is anyone to bear witness. Stride aloft My dear Mrs Washington because for you this tiring trod through Babylon is at last over - mount Zion is now your new, eternal home.

The rainbow, splashed on Mrs Washington Nine night. There was only spitting, it was near night - but the vital sign was there.